Notes from a Landmine

August 10, 2011

This prose poem was written in the heyday of Dylan, Ginsberg, and the other beat poets. I was living on Church Street at the time. Alone. Some days I used to sit out on the front steps with a cup of coffee and watch the traffic of people up and down the street. A local whore used to sit with me. Sometimes. When her feet got tired. I wouldn’t say we were close friends. But she drank my coffee. And after we’d gotten to know each other better she asked me to be her pimp. She said she used to get off on the sound of her pimp punching some guy in the ribs.

Notes From a Landmine

Some time in the future. In the next 5 minutes. Creatures from a distant planet (L.A.) will pay us a visit. They’ll park in a NO PARKING zone. Perhaps they know someone at city hall. They’ll be responding to a distress call. NOT TONIGHT DEAR. I’VE GOT A HEADACHE.

When they land there won’t be a sign of life. It’ll be after 7:00 and everyone will have fled to the suburbs. Or else will be in the kitchen eating a snack. They’ll grab a VW. Beat it up. Try to get some information. Out of it. Only to discover that the BUG only speaks German.

They’ll visit deserted expressways. Which they’ll treat with great respect. As one does to all holy places. There’ll be corridors of empty buildings. Broken glass. Overturned garbage cans. Some form of husbandry. Will be their conclusion.

The drive-ins will be half empty. They’ll be playing a festival of robt. Stack films. Pink bottoms will bounce up and down on back seat springs. A concussion of squeaks and moans. Modern jazz will be there conclusion.

Elevators will run up & down the marrow. Of vacant office towers. Out of control. A red headed kid in uniform will take bets. On how they’ll finish. Parking meters will read VIOLATION. There’ll be a

commission set up. To investigate. Its findings will include.

Lunches should last from ten thirty to three. Longer if food is served. All pedestrians should be compelled. To wear crash helmets. Air bags. Parachutes. And a year’s supply of prophylactics. And a warning should be placed. On all packages of cigarettes. LOVE DOES NOT CURE ALL.

There will be colleges full of crumbling merchandise. So that by the time you have enough degrees. Some kid will call you. Grandpa. And sell you to a Rest Home. At a handsome profit.

Chesterfields will begin to sag and rot. Still gripping a guarantee. That will have a life span. Of several million light years. Sewers will be breathing. A hot black smoke. Whistling through some manhole covers of old Lawrence Welk favourites.

It will be instantly recognized by the cosmic travellers. That the sewers cannot carry a tune. Finally the visitors will depart. Resport will be read in part. ‘everything seems quite normal.’